


The Healer

by LavenderCat



Series: The Moment of Falling [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Sick Character, Sick Tim Drake, Tim Drake is Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderCat/pseuds/LavenderCat
Summary: Bruce’s first recollection of what happened after The After Time was of Tim. A flare of something against the backdrop of mind-numbing ache. A child, a boy, a kid, so remarkable and persistent that he refused to be turned away. Somehow, Tim had approached a raging, bleeding animal and convinced it to be his partner. Bruce could almost laugh to remember that. Sweet, shy Tim who always said please and thank you, and demurred every suggestion of attention even as his cheeks burned with pleasure at being praised, admired, noticed.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: The Moment of Falling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068155
Comments: 16
Kudos: 204
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	The Healer

It had taken Bruce a while to really see Tim.

In the early days, the first days after… Well. After. Bruce had barely registered the boy at all. He registered _‘child’_ and _‘no, no, no, never again’_.

His bark had been vicious in those days. Enough to drive away everyone else. Coworkers, League members, even Dick. Only Alfred had remained steadfast at his side through his violent mourning. But nothing, even from his oldest friend, could manage to break through the clouds of tumultuous, abject misery and roiling despair. Bruce had been steeped in grief. Twisted up in sorrow and collapsed in on himself, entirely unrecognizable and hemorrhaging pain from the loss of a child. Bruce did not remember a lot about that time, only brief flashes of pain and poor coping and more pain. He remembered feeling utterly untethered. A wounded thing snapping and spitting and desperate to protect against anything that tried to harken to or soothe his exposed, bleeding heart.

Somehow, Tim had managed to breach that grieving creature’s world. Had stood against the roaring bark and braced for the bite that somehow never came. Bruce was not sure if Tim had known that Bruce would never have willfully hurt him, even in such a state, or if he had simply resigned himself to being the teething object for all that vitriol and howling hurt.

Bruce’s first recollection of what happened after The After Time was of Tim. A flare of something against the backdrop of mind-numbing ache. A child, a boy, a kid, so remarkable and persistent that he refused to be turned away. Somehow, Tim had approached a raging, bleeding animal and convinced it to be his partner. Bruce could almost laugh to remember that. Sweet, shy Tim who always said please and thank you, and demurred every suggestion of attention even as his cheeks burned with pleasure at being praised, admired, noticed.

Bruce knew Tim to be relentlessly capable. His mind was an incredible thing. His ability to absorb, assimilate, reconfigure, and apply knowledge was frankly astounding. Bruce had taken to presenting absurd challenges to Tim just to see how he would think through it. He was not the only one either, Tim’s genius when paired with his effacing, obliging nature was charming and fascinating. How had this boy mastered the ability of making himself seem so small when he was constantly at work in the service of others?

♔ ♔ ♔

  
It had taken Bruce longer than he cared to admit to notice that Tim was not a naturally loquacious child. The boy could speak on any number of topics with at least some semblance of an informed opinion, and indeed seemed to be limited only by his own interest and motivation rather than requisite ability, but he was much more prone to listening and attending than he was to speaking when not directly addressed.

When he first came to Bruce, Tim never seemed to stop talking. He kept a running dialogue going whenever he was with Bruce. Filling the silence and prodding for responses just enough that Bruce had to keep at least some of his attention on what Tim was saying in order to respond appropriately.

Strangely, Tim’s reaction to being acknowledged was one of the things that dragged Bruce into the present, banking his torment and sadness in favor of engaging in the moment in front of him. At first, Tim had seemed quietly floored that someone was communicating reciprocally with him. He had absolutely glowed with the excitement of having someone acknowledge him. Even in the small, half-way-there way Bruce had offered at first. It pulled on Bruce’s heartstrings and made him feel proud to bring Tim that measure of joy. Looking back, Bruce could see it for the glaring red flag it was.

Where Tim had a tendency to be reserved, Robin had a predilection for, as some inconsequential street thug had once put it _‘never shutting the ever living f*** up’_. Tim’s Robin was just as sharp as he was, but thrice as cutting. Robin was constantly musing aloud, analyzing the actions of his opponents and finding every way in which they were left wanting. He never explicitly lobbied insults, but the incisive critiques, especially when delivered by a precocious child, were more than enough to unnerve and demoralize the villainous rolodex of Gotham.

Which is why Batman had noticed when Robin had been relatively silent throughout patrol that night. The typically bright and engaged vigilante had petered off as the night wore one. In the last hour or so, Robin had only offered a grand total of 2 biting quips, aimed more at the assailant’s wardrobe choice rather than his clear lack of a plan more advanced than _‘smash’_ and _‘grab’_ and _‘run’_.

Batman had stalled the patrol shortly after. Halting on a rooftop under the guise of surveilling the streets from high atop the sprawling cityscape. Robin had landed on the rooftop without comment. Merely perching beside a gargoyle Dick had named ‘Gaspar’ during his own Robin tenure. Batman had circumspectly observed his third Robin, waiting for the boy to begin an erudite line of discourse about dinosaurs vs. robots, or the modern significance of the federalist papers, or the evolution of human dentition since the industrial revolution (all previous subjects that Tim had expanded on profusely in the past week), but the boy seemed content to hold his silence. It was only when Batman noted a slight sway in Robin’s balanced perch that he decided to call patrol a bit earlier than usual, citing a thoroughly unimportant staff meeting the next morning as his reason for heading in early. Again, Tim did not comment. Again, Batman registered this as unusual.

The ride back to the cave was silent. Bruce absently wondered if he should have caved to Jason’s wheedling to put a radio or a Bluetooth receiver in for listening to music. Tim sat docilely in the passenger seat, hands resting on his thighs, seated upright, but relaxed, elegant posture ingrained from growing up in Gotham’s aristocratic echelon. His expression appeared neutral beneath the domino. Not entirely odd, but Bruce found he missed Tim’s characteristic, end-of-patrol excitement and boyish grin. Something balanced between Jason’s insouciant smirk and Dick’s guileless beaming.

The Batmobile pulled into the Batcave’s receiving bay and Bruce cut the engine. Doffing his gloves and pushing the cowl back before noticing that Tim had not yet begun to move from his seat.

“Tim?” Bruce called. Tim did not respond. Bruce frowned in slight concern. Tim’s chest was rising and falling with the soft cadence of sleep. That was very unusual. Bruce had never seen Tim sleep, now that he thought of it. He had seen Tim awake at virtually all hours of the night, seemingly unable to keep to a regulated circadian rhythm, and he had seen Tim drink more caffeine than his entire board room at Wayne Enterprises over the course of a bleary morning, but he had never seen Tim sleep.

Bruce exited the driver’s seat and briskly walked around to Tim’s door, pulling it open and crouching next to the boy. He swiftly assessed his Robin for obvious injury, but found the suit to be in pristine condition, if not a bit grimy from a night on the streets. He additionally noted, with relief, that nothing in Tim’s posture suggested hurt.

Tim did not generally end the night with injuries. He and Dick had developed a style of fighting that used Tim’s small stature and economic agility to make him difficult to land a hit on. His movements were not nearly as intuitive and grandiose as Dick’s Robin had been, but his strength was in his ability to think circles around his opponent. Always positioning himself favorably to strike and evade. His training with the bo staff, a weapon predicated on retaining distance while dealing out incapacitating blows, had paired magnificently with his unique style of movement.

Bruce stuffed his gloves into his belt and reached forward to shake Tim’s shoulder.

“Tim? Tim are you with me, kiddo?”

Tim’s only response was a huff of breath and a small barely there sound in the back of his throat.

Bruce moved his hand up to Tim’s face to check his temperature. Tim’s face was burning hot. The boy made a pleased noise in his sleep and shifted to lean his head into Bruce’s palm, instinctively reacting to the cool feeling against his boiling skin.

Bruce felt his brow crease even as his lips tilted up in a fond smile.

Tim had a fever, and he had still gone out on patrol. No one had noticed. He had gone to school that day. Where were his parents? Were they _still_ traveling? Bruce tried to recall the last time Tim had mentioned them and found he couldn’t recall anything of significance in his recent memory.

He inwardly admonished himself and resolved to pry more into Tim’s life in the future, even if Tim was concerningly adept at deflecting. But for now, he had an exhausted, sick kid in front of him, and a plethora of bedrooms upstairs that were ready to house a weary guest.

Tim grumbled unhappily when Bruce began to withdraw his hand. Head lolling forward before dropping back against the headrest.

“It’s alright Tim,” Bruce soothed, letting his voice fall into a soft rumble as he returned his hand to peel away the domino concealing Tim’s face, revealing flushed cheeks and a forehead covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He unbuckled his Robin and reached to scoop him up against his chest. With an arm behind narrow shoulders, and another supporting the crook of Tim’s knees, Bruce fluidly balanced back away from the car frame and stood to carry Tim to the lockers on the far side of the cave.

Tim tensed as Bruce stood. Dark eyelashes swept up, as violet blue eyes struggled to focus through a haze of somnolent confusion.

“What are..” Tim’s body moved as though to react defensively, limbs heavy and uncoordinated in his febrile state.

Bruce shushed him gently, curling Tim towards his chest, firmly thwarting Tim’s attempt to twist away. “It’s alright Tim, we’re in the cave, I’ve got you.”

Tim froze and seemed to be processing the words through slow blinks. Finally he went limp, face turning into Bruce’s armor. “Oh, hi Bruce.” He was silent for a moment. “Why’re you carrying me? Did somethin’ happen?”

Tim’s words held an edge of a slur and he seemed to be fighting sleep. Bruce chuckled to himself.

“No, Tim. You have a fever. Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have been mad if you missed patrol.”

Bruce might have missed Tim’s stilling between one blink and the next if he hadn’t been holding him so closely. A beat, and Tim shrugged. Burrowing slightly into Bruce’s chest and sighing tiredly.

Bruce smiled. Tim was showing complete trust in allowing himself to be held like this. The gift of that faith was making Bruce's heart feel full and soft in a way he had thought he might have lost forever.

Tim never sought affection.

♔ ♔ ♔

Once Tim was cleaned up and changed, Bruce told, rather than asked Tim, that he was going to stay at the manor for the weekend, or until his fever receded. Alfred had checked Tim’s temperature and after tendering his displeasure at the idea of sick, young boys forsaking rest in favor of gallivanting through the city streets, had deemed his fever significant but not alarming. The older gentleman had then further declared that hot meals and a period of repose should see him through the worst of it. He had crisply ordered both Bruce and Tim to bed, booking no argument for wrapping up case notes that would keep until morning.

Tim had accepted the admonishment and decrees without much protest, but remained drooped over the bench near the lockers when the cue to remove upstairs was given. Bruce hesitated a moment, glancing to Alfred, who merely raised a partition eyebrow in response.

For the second time that evening, Bruce moved to lift Tim into his arms. Tim stiffened for a moment but began to melt by increments almost immediately, too tired to censor his desire for tactile comfort.

“I can walk,” he mumbled into Bruce’s sweatshirt.

“I know,” Bruce smiled. Thinking nothing of it as he leaned down to press a kiss into Tim’s hairline.

**Author's Note:**

> Tim Drake is my favorite Bat and I am becoming addicted to writing him into better circumstances and relationships full of genuine affection and care. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
